


To Seduce a Strider

by dornishviper



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, F/M, M/M, Mistletoe, Other, i cant believe i wrote a fucking charater x reader fic, it's written in a gender-neutral way so it can be a male or female or nb readerhoorah, secretsanta-stuck, this is lower than i ever thought i would stoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 16:58:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornishviper/pseuds/dornishviper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're not sure why you came to this Christmas party, but you migth as well make the most of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Seduce a Strider

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for a friend of mine, Ibuvanweeds over at DeviantArt as a secret santa present, but I figured I might as well post it here.

You are not entirely sure why you let your friend drag you to this Christmas party. It’s probably better than listening to your mother ramble on at the dinner table about how much you should be appreciating your aunt’s gifts, those awful shorts that looked like she’d stumbled into a store and grabbed the first thing that seemed like “a youth would wear it”, and how you really do need to call your cousin who you haven’t seen since you were three. But still, the scintillating colorful lights serve as an ever-present reminder that yes, it’s Christmas, and you are completely ignoring your family. But your mom, notorious for her strict parenting, actually let you come! Like hell you’re going to throw that Christmas miracle away.

You look around the cluttered room, filled to the brim with people all talking and laughing, some even dancing. It’s like your entire school’s come here, and then some; you’re honestly amazed that all of them manage to fit and freely move. The lights bathe the room like a million static disco balls and everyone takes up a different shade of blue, green, red or yellow. They’re hung almost perfectly from the ceiling, leading from opposite corners of the room to the centerpiece. There’s big green tree smack in the middle of the place, the only bit of furniture still standing in the entire penthouse apartment, decorated with weirdly shaped puppets and apple juice boxes. Yeah, you’re not even going to try to guess what that’s about. Let Dave Strider be Dave Strider. The music blares out and drowns out your thoughts, EDM heavy on bass mixed by, you assume, the host himself.

You spot the friend who you came here with, sitting in a corner with a beer in her hand and a cigarette in her mouth, surrounded by an enormous circle of people you don’t really know. She’d ditched you as soon as the guy she likes came over and asked to dance with her, an apologetic shrug and a whisper of “sorry” being all she left you standing with. Your arms cross involuntarily in front of chest and you walk around the room, seeking the kitchen counter with snacks – chips, Cheetos, candy canes had filled bowls on it when you first came in an hour ago – but find it entirely empty of everything except some spilled coke and rum. The idea to actually talk to someone crosses your mind, maybe even join the group that your friend was chatting with, but even though you know nearly everybody here, they all seem to be busy in their own groups and worming your way into one has never been your strong suit.

“Excuse me,” you say to a couple making eyes at each other while standing in your way, and pass right in between them, breaking their romantic moment. You continue making your way through the crowd, trying to see if you can spot someone you know wandering as aimlessly as you, until someone thoughtlessly bumps into you.

“Sorry man. People are just bumpin’ left and right here, y’know, it’s practically a fucking mosh pit.” The emotionless voice is unmistakable, and when he turns around and you see those ridiculous shades despite the dim lighting, you know who’s talking.

“It’s fine. Nice party you got here, by the way,” you say, smiling at him. He’s looking good tonight, with his blonde hair messily draping over his head, bangs dipping slightly over his sunglasses, shirt wrinkled and stained; you can tell he’s having a good time even if he’s not positively beaming.

“Thanks, it’s our yearly ‘debase yourself on Jesus’s birthday’ event so it’s great that so many want to participate in our blasphemous celebration. Because really, if you can’t go totally fucking wild on the holiest day of the year, you’re not doing irony right.” You’d never really had a conversation with Dave before, but he was in your fifth period Bio class, so he immediately recognized you.

You chuckle lightly at his words. “Well, I’ve seen at least three couples getting hot and heavy in plain sight, so I’d say you’re doing alright in the blasphemy department.”

“Oh hell yea, mission accomplished. I don’t see you actin’ like an animal though, I gotta say it disappoints me,” he says, not that his expression or tone have changed in any way to indicate his supposed disappointment.

“I think I just may be too saintly to be corrupted,” you reply. “Nobody’s been able to sully me so far, Christmas or not. Actually, I’ve never been to your legendary parties until tonight.”

“You’re not serious, dude.”

“Totally am.”

Even behind his shades, you can tell Dave’s eyes are scanning you from head to toe and, honestly, it makes you uncomfortable. Thankfully, he stops to look you in the eye again. “You’re on then. I’ll get you to go crazy tonight, if only because I think that’s the plot of some cheesy movie John likes and it would be hilarious to reenact it. What’s more ironic than being cliché while knowing you’re being cliché, right?”

You’ve got no idea who John is or what the hell Dave’s going on about, but you’ve actually found someone to talk to and it’s getting pretty entertaining so you don’t see a reason to stop. “And how are you gonna go about that, cool kid?”

“Well, for starters,” Dave points up and your gaze follows his finger,”… mistletoe.”

You feel his lips touch yours, dry but only slightly chapped, while your eyes are still distracted. Immediately, they close and his mouth begins to move against yours, gently brushing lip against lip. It’s when you feel his tongue drag over your bottom lip that you pull away and open your eyes to gape at him.

“What was that?” you ask. You’re perhaps not as alarmed as you might be. Dave’s cute and lots of people you know want him pretty bad. You included. Well, you wouldn’t mind getting some of that, at least.

“It’s in the rules of Christmas. Mistletoe equals a kiss, which is why we’ve littered the place with them. Get the debauchery ball rolling, if you know what I mean. It’s all part of the master plan of going straight to fucking Hell when I die, really.”

“Sounds like an interesting plan. Mind if I join in?”

“And here I thought you were a saint. Unless you’re in covert to start a second revolution against God while in heaven, which, respect.” He offers his fist to you and you bump it.

“No but, I am a saint. You’re just a bit persuasive is all. I’m back to my saintly self now, promise!” You hold out your pinkie and he surprises you by actually shaking yours with his. Probably “for the irony” or some shit. Dave Strider’s brain processes completely elude you, and most of humanity.

“Maybe you just need to be persuaded more. Wouldn’t want you to lose interest in me and my corruption. That would mean exactly two people having less fun than they could tonight.”

Well, why not. Talking to and kissing Dave had turned out to be equally interesting, anyway. “Hm, what do you have in mind to get me to join in with the debauchery?”

You know what that smirk means, as he grabs your arm and drags you across the room, through the suffocating crowd of sweating bodies, through the at least two different types of smoke that fill the air and make it a stuffy mess, through the endless maze of lights and music. Finally, you both make it in one piece to a door, closed and locked. He fishes out a key from his pocket and jams it into the lock, looking around and then opening the room.

It’s pitch black, but a second after closing and locking the door behind you, you hear the click of a switch, and light fills the room. It’s great to actually be able to see decently, you think. The room is messy, with a bed in its center, a running computer on a desk with stacks of magazines and video games, and posters of who even knows what. You notice the turntables, mixer, and various bits of DJing equipment.

“Nice room. Might benefit from some spring cleaning though. Did you mix the music playing?” you ask, sitting on the edge of his bed and looking around.

He turns away from the door to answer you, and you finally get a good look at him. His T-shirt has a couple cigarette burns on it, some stains too, but the CD is still plainly recognizable in its center. He’s wearing shorts which are in a less tattered state, and in this context he looks so much more alive and satisfied than he did in the dark, without changing his expression even slightly. “Yeah, it was me and Bro remixing some shit EDM into truly sick beats. One hell of an afternoon yesterday, the neighbors complained twice and we had to tell them that the party hadn’t even started.”

He strolls over and sits next to you. You nod understandingly, not sure what to say. Thankfully, his rambling gets the best of him again. “So, we were in the middle of something, right? I think I was about to use my amazing skills as a lawyer to bring you over to the dark side.”

“Not exactly a lawyer, but I’m not denying that you got a convincing mouth,” you say, leaning closer and mentally patting yourself in the back for being so smooth.

You feel Dave’s breath on yours and in an instant he closes the space between you. You focus on feelings only, closing your eyes and sensing his lips against yours. His tongue flicks your bottom lip and you open your mouth obediently, letting him in. He tastes like cheap whiskey and salt, but you don’t mind – you’re sure you don’t taste much better, since you didn’t even bring a breath mint to this party. His mouth is warm and inviting, drawing you in like a hypnotist to a willing audience and you feel yourself dragging your hands over his body, up his arms, over his shoulders, around his neck. You pull him closer by the scruff of his shirt and Dave eagerly follows your movements as his hands knead into your lower back.

Dave bites your lip lightly and you’re on fire, hungry and wanting. You overtake him, forcibly taking control of this situation, licking his lips and nibbling on them, focusing on exploring him and tasting him and feeling him and breathing him; you are totally intoxicated. Then it hits you – you’re making out with _Dave Strider_ in his room. Wasn’t he supposed to be totally unattainable? Isn’t this frenzied and unleashed behavior the opposite of his usual detached and cool appearance? The thought only exhilarates you further. You have excited someone that nobody else could. As your turn up the intensity, pull him closer until your bodies are squished together, and begin trailing away from his mouth, tracing along his jaw, you almost feel a sort of desperation. Yours or his, it doesn’t matter. You both want more, need more contact, more friction.

But you pull away. Something’s been bothering you this whole time.

“Shades,” you say, between heavy breaths. Your fingers trace up the cheeks of a once again fully composed poker face and tease at the edges of the sunglasses’ rim. You’d pull them off but something makes you hesitate. It feels like a very intimate barrier and you’re not entirely sure you want to break it, anymore.

“No.” It’s the shortest phrase you’ve ever heard him say, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say there was an emotion surfacing along with the word.

“Why not? Your mouth’s doing a good job of convincing me, but it might be more efficient if I could see your eyes and didn’t feel those things crashing into my face.”

“Because no, dude. The shades stay. Negotiate for anything else on my body and maybe you’ll get it, but the shades ain’t leaving, just can’t pass up the chance of actually getting some while wearing the douchiest article of clothing known to mankind,” Dave says, and you’re sure he’s just using that irony thing as an excuse for something (but at least he recognizes how terrible those things are). You’re not going to press it, though.

You think of a last-second compromise. “Okay, keep your shades, Mr. Irony, but everything has a price, and in this case the price is your shirt.”

A barely-there smirk occupies the lips you’ve just met and he stands. You look at him quizzically for a second until you realize why he’s twirling his hips and tracing his own body with his hands. “No need for a strip-tease, Dave,” you laugh, “just the shirt will do.”

He doesn’t seem to listen and continues to dance provocatively in front of you, touching the hem of his shirt multiples times, eventually leaning in close and settling on your lap, his legs on either side of yours. His hands meet the edge of his shirt again and begin to slowly pull it up, as you feel his hips grind lightly on your own. It feels like it takes him a century, if not more, to finally slip the stained fabric off his body and throw it to a corner of the room, which you vaguely notice is already full of socks, shorts, underwear, and probably food.

“That good enough? I personally think my abs talk better than my eyes.”

And they are pretty impressive, or at least, you can tell he regularly works out from the way his body is sculpted. Still, there’s no missing the scars and bruises. They decorate his body like ornaments on a tree, little thin lines traced along his abdomen like someone had tried to connect the dots. Absentmindedly, your hands raise to touch one, sliding across from his right pectoral to his second rib on the same side.

“What happened?” You can’t really contain your curiosity at this point.

“Oh, it’s nothing. I just strife with my Bro sometimes so it’s inevitable to get a bit scratched up. But it’s really no big deal, I barely feel ‘em. Admit it though, I just got a hell of a lot more badass.” You’re not sure it’s something he should so quickly be brushing aside, since from the picture painted in his abdomen, the strifes aren’t exactly fair… but this isn’t the time or place. Instead you chuckle and nod, then lean into his lips.

“Oh definitely,” you whisper against them, before sealing it with a kiss. His mouth opens instantly, you don’t even have to ask this time. All the while, your hands travel down from his neck and along with bare shoulders, his back, his chest, his abdomen. The skin practically burns to the touch but you just yearn for it more, pressing yourself completely against him. Your mouth leaves his and starts to move, kissing his jaw and then down to his neck. You lick a long line on Dave’s scalding hot neck and feel him shiver against you. Your hands knead into his upper back, massaging him gently and he relaxes in your grip. His hips grind against yours and now it’s you who feels hot, too hot, suffocating with heat. Your hands slide toward his arms and you guide them to the hem of your shirt, an insinuation he can’t miss.

But then you hear knocking. To be fair, the knocking had probably gone on for a while but this was the first time you actually notice it. The same apparently holds true for Dave who reluctantly separates himself from you and walks over to the door.

“What is it?” he shouts to whoever is outside, so they can actually hear over the booming music.

There’s no actual answer, at least no spoken answer, but a white paper slides through the bottom of the door. Dave’s face gives nothing away as he reads it for a couple of seconds. Then, he snatches a shirt lying on the ground and slips it on himself easily.

“What happened?”

“The fucking cops are here. Now I gotta go tell everyone that the party’s busted and they should probably try to make a run for it if they’ve got anything illegal besides the booze, which yeah, no doubt about it, since the place is practically Sodom and fuckin’ Gomorrah. Actually, you should go, too. Cops and their determination to keep balls blue, y’know,” he says, turning to look at you, almost disappointed. That could just be your imagination though.

You collect yourself long enough to process what’s happening and quickly stand up. You hear the click of an unlocked door. “Yeah, wait a second though. You got a pen?”

The blonde motions to the cluttered desk pressed against the wall. You scan it and grab the nearest thing that looks like it writes, then reach for a piece of scrap paper. Fast as possible, you scribble a couple of digits followed by your name. He looks at you curiously for a second.

“My number,” you explain briefly, “if you ever wanna pick up where we left off. See you around, Strider.”

He nods and you wink, walking over to the doorway. Before walking past him, you press a quick kiss to his lips, then turn to wave at your friend and motion to leave the busted party.


End file.
